


sorry about the blood in your mouth (i wish it was mine)

by s0dafucker



Category: My Chemical Romance, The Used
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, everyones trans bc fuck u, theres sex in here watch out, trans mikey and trans frank and also trans jeph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 18:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19408555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: what are weis hanging out behind bert’s teeth, because of course it is, because he’s turning into everything he hates.what are we, he says in his mind’s eye, and fantasy-gerard replies,we’re lovers, dumbass. i’m in love with you.in which bert fucks his best friend and bert takes drugs and most notably, bert pines.





	sorry about the blood in your mouth (i wish it was mine)

**Author's Note:**

> cw for:  
> rec drug use (weed/nicotine/coke)  
> mention of non-descript penetrative sex where a trans guy bottoms (all sex including trans dudes refers 2 their junk as their dick/cock)  
> shit talking stem majors

gerard answers the door in boxers and a robe that flows around his thighs, the kind of thing that a douchebag in a 90s movie would wear, a frat boy or a trust fund kid, except that it's gerard, and he couldn't be further from that vintage brand of assholery. he smiles with half his mouth and all his eyes and looks about five minutes from collapsing asleep on bert's shoulder.

'mornin'.' he says, and that's when the worrying begins.

bert isn't a worrier, though, not on the outside, so he laughs- 'did you lose a day? it's two o'clock.'

gerard stutters there, faintly, a little something in his eyes, a twitch of panic or fear before it vanishes behind this veneer of easiness, of _oh, gerard, you dumbass,_ and he says, 'guess so,' and leaves the door open when he turns to go inside. (the house is a mess, though not nearly as bad as bert's place- he chalks it up to having more guys and less of whatever neurotic shit mikey and gerard have going on.)

they find a couch amidst the disarray. it’s a skill. bert isn’t really sure what he’s doing here, because he hasn’t really been sure of anything with gerard- except that he likes him. that’s for certain.

‘so,’ gerard says, and when he leans in close bert can smell something strong on his breath, and he can see the shadows under his eyes, but besides that gerard’s looking at him like he hung the goddamn moon, and his hands are wandering, feeling him up above his sweatshirt as he goes on; ‘this visit for business or pleasure?’

it isn’t until after, when they’re having a cigarette and bert’s boxers are haphazardly pulled back up, that the worry comes back; he tilts his head back to stare at the nicotine-stained ceiling and asks, ‘how was class?’ because he knows gerard had a studio this morning, the one he usually takes at night, the sort of thing that would throw him off and send him into a day-long drunken nap, and there’s no reply. the silence lasts a beat too long, long enough for bert to lift his head, and when he does that panicked something is back, slipping through the cracks, and bert isn’t gonna ask, but it’s not a pretty look. (a shame, on that face. almost everything’s pretty on gerard.)

-

he doesn’t see it again for a little while, which is nice. gerard sticks to looking very pretty, managing it when he’s sniffling through their 10am lit class insisting he has allergies and even then- his pupils are blown wide in a way that’s wickedly appealing. it’s all too easy to imagine that dark gaze looking up at him, those nimble artist hands making quick work of unraveling every scrap of composure bert can pretend to have.

‘hey,’ bert nudges his shoulder. ‘we’re done.’

gerard shakes himself, seems to draw himself together, wrap it up like a sick kid under the covers. ‘sorry.’ he gathers his shit and stands and bert takes him in; hair like a rat’s nest (normal), lips chapped and bitten pink (normal), nose red (not yet normal. not surprising, though), and stops his wandering eyes on gerard’s own- pupils dilated so wide they almost overtake the green-brown bert’s used to. normal. coke tends to show, when gerard does it.

‘’s okay.’

he gets gerard to take a couple hits off his flair on the walk to the art building. he trades out the menthol pods for the strawberry gerard likes in a couple clumsy seconds as they leave, selling the adrenaline spike of almost dropping the thing for the warm feeling that swells when gerard’s eyes catch on the red.

it chills him out a little. bert’s been trying to learn him, the pemdas of gerard, what cancels out what. when he should be having nic and when he shouldn’t, what strains of weed will calm him down and which will make him goofy and which are to be avoided- he hit someone’s pen once, at a party, and bert punched the kid in the head before he went into the corner to stroke gerard's hair.

gerard takes a hit, and another, and bert stares, his hands awkwardly at his sides. (he wishes they weren’t. he’d have one on the small of gerard’s back, just to steady-)

‘thanks.’ gerard hands it back. bert swallows and nods.

-

it's late. the windows are open, ceiling fan going fast enough to raise goosebumps on bert's arms- old habits from dorm days. gerard's gaze is fixed on the tv, rapt, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

bert's smoking some indica blend frank got him, a late birthday present. gerard handed it back a while ago, and he hasn't moved to ask for it back; bert chalks it up to whatever true crime shit he's watching, because gerard gets grabby when he's high.

 _what are we_ is hanging out behind bert’s teeth, because of course it is, because he’s turning into everything he hates. _what are we,_ he says in his mind’s eye, and fantasy-gerard replies, _we’re lovers, dumbass. i’m in love with you._ he takes a long pull of the joint.

real-gerard is transfixed with whatever shit is on, casting white and blue all over his face, catching in the pockets of his eyebags, the high points of his cheekbones, the pools that are his eyes. bert’s gaze slides to the screen and he tries to figure out what it is; he hears _human furniture_ and _plainfield wisconsin_ and makes a face. ed gein’s fucking gross.

he says as much, to gerard, and he nods absently, a little slack-jawed and sleepy, and he doesn’t turn to bert until a commercial for mesothelioma or some shit comes on and there- there are the grabby hands. ‘give it,’ he mutters, slender little fingers already reaching over to land on bert’s arm, his thigh, fingers outstretched for the joint, and bert decides in a split second that he’s gonna mess with him. the lack of premeditation doesn’t bode well with the fact that bert’s already a little gone, halfway to real stoned, but gerard’s tired and a lightweight and it balances out. bert gets the joint above his head, and gerard’s always been a little lankier than him, a little more noodley, so he almost grabs it, but he’s wobbly, too, and tangled up in his stupid-cute blanket burrito, and all he manages to do is clamber on top of bert to knock him flat on his back and almost start a fire.

and it barely fazes him, too. a senior, a whole four years older, with a job and a little brother to take care of and no regard for fire safety-

‘give it, asshole,’ gerard cuts in, and bert was too busy being an ass to notice, but now it comes to him in a hot wave of friend-boner-etiquette that his dick has taken note of the situation. ah.

‘fight me for it,’ he says, not ready to let go of finally having gerard’s attention.

‘fuck you,’ gerard says, and he shifts around a little, pulls himself into something that is almost sitting but not quite, too much of bert in the way, and bert lifts his hips up into it; gerard giggles, then, and leans down to smack him in the chest. 'gross,' he says, his voice low and wandering. he doesn't move, though- his hand splays out on bert’s chest, stays where it is, and the other delicately plucks the joint from his hand. _eliminated the fire hazard_ says the sarcastic voice in bert’s head, the part of him that would love to be messing with gerard right now, but is too preoccupied with the way his narrow hips fit against bert’s own, the way he fidgets just enough to make bert move in response. gerard takes a hit, savors it- bert doesn’t blame him, because frank definitely shelled out the big bucks for this shit. it’s probably something with a name, something dumb that they sell in the stores in new york and la and everywhere else where you don’t have to buy from the frat houses down the block- but bert’s never cared that much about weed. the climate doesn’t really allow for it.

gerard gets his hit and he props himself up with the hand on bert’s sternum and it’s- not enough, not really, but bert’s willing to settle, because he’s a pansy like that, he’s a dumb sap, he likes the view- but he can see how gerard’s eyes glint when he looks down, like he’s considering. he untangles himself, both from bert and the covers, and crawls over to the nightstand to snuff the joint out in the ashtray.

he turns around and he lays himself out on the pillows and he grins, that slow way he does when he’s trying to be flirty, close-lipped and somewhere between goofy and genuine. bert can read the offer in his eyes well enough.

so he gets his hands all lost in gerard's hair and makes him arch his back and smile, makes him sigh happily and makes him moan into a kiss.

he draws his stupid robe up around himself when they're done, tosses bert an old t-shirt to clean up and says, 'goin' out for a smoke,' his voice raw and tired.

they share the cigarette, and then another, and a third, because bert doesn't have class until 11 the next day and the silence is comfortable.

(he's late to his class anyway, because he has to stumble home while the sun comes up. jeph talks him into doing a line off the countertop. it helps.)

-

bert's never really spoken to mikey, which isn't to say he doesn't know much about him- he knows that frank went out with him for a while, and gerard wouldn't get involved no matter how far up the wall it drove him. bert knows that he trained himself out of being asthmatic. bert knows that a week after his top surgery he carried a drunk gabe down two flights of stairs because he thought he'd break his neck. (and bert doesn't know how he did it. he saw jeph a week after his, and he could barely raise his arms.) bert knows that he knocked a tooth out of the last guy to cheat on him.

which is to say, he's a little terrified of the kid.

gerard can't comprehend it- _‘mikey?' he'd repeated, incredulous, and bert had nodded. 'he's scary, man. he knocked that wentz kid fucking flat.' and gerard had just laughed._

so when bert bumps into him on his way out, a stoned gerard tucked in with the covers up to his chin and the blackout curtains drawn, it's a little unsettling. bert's older, he knows that, but mikey's tall, and he's having a mug of coffee in the middle of the night, and the whole thing is just. a bit much. bert's a little high.

mikey's at the rickety kitchen table, pages of notes spread out in front of him, a cigarette balancing precariously between his teeth- he glances up, a flash of dark eyes, and in that second bert gets why frank was so enamored with him. frank, who cut his arm with a gas station switchblade to get a taper slick enough to stretch his ear another size; frank and his ankle that clicks from jumping off a roof in high school.

bert just nods, the movement jerky and nervous, and he gets the hell out of dodge.

a couple days pass and he's up late in his own damn house, for once, 'cause he can't sleep when weezer's fucking blasting like that- my name is jonas starts and bert would go downstairs and punch somebody except with his luck it'll be jeph or frank or someone he actually likes. (it's _blaring,_ though, and it's- he checks his phone- 1:30.) he feels around under his bed until he hits something cold and hard and glass.

frank's nodding along to buddy holly on the couch, and he offers bert a bowl; and he pushes away the part of him that he hates, the whiny bitch who wants to go to bed and kiss gerard softly- and he takes a hit, and another, and he pulls party-bert out from wherever he lives. (party-bert is very excited about weezer, and he sings buddy holly until it probably gets on someone’s nerves.)

he offers frank the neck of his smirnoff bottle, in return. the kid accepts- he looks unmistakably concert-hungover, a purple-blue pit bruise flourishing on his jaw, the smudged remains of black makeup gone gray beneath his lashes.

‘you’re with gerard, right?’ frank asks, and bert isn’t quite sure how to answer that. frank nods, though, and he says, ‘yeah. okay.’

‘just wonderin’, because, like, i’m not trying to fuck things up if y’all are exclusive, y’know? i’m not like that.’ he’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt and bert can’t tell if it’s the weed or if that’s just frank- frank’s kinda like that. he decides he won’t ask.

'i’m not into gerard.' frank says, mutters it. 'if that changes anything.'

bert nods. he takes a long drink. he turns and takes frank’s face in his hands.

frank’s a fine kisser, open and obliging and fond of getting his fingers in bert’s hair and only tasting a little of weed, and it’s a good way to spend a night. good way to kill an hour, sliding his tongue over frank’s teeth and pulling at his lip ring, and when they’re done, when frank decides he’s gonna try and sleep because, ‘i have an 8am,’ and bert can’t even be sure that he’ll miss it, because frank’s crazy like that- when they’re done, bert goes hunting for something to do. (he feels almost guilty, his brain fuzzy and thinking of how frank always seems to be loved like that, like roadkill is loved by a vulture.)

he doesn’t get far. he makes it to the other side of the living room, grinning and nodding when someone says, ‘hey,’ stumbles for a chair and eases into it. he fishes a cigarette out from somewhere in his hoodie and turns to ask the guy in the loveseat for a light-

and it’s mikey way, tangled up with somebody who might actually be a girl. he pulls away from her and looks just as inscrutable as always, hair messy in a way that still fucking looks good. there’s a fresh hickey on his neck and he’s looking at bert like they’re both at a mildly interesting lecture. fucking whatever.

'got a light?' bert asks, and mikey finds one somewhere in his layers.

the girl he’s with makes herself more comfortable, like she can tell he’s gonna start talking- (and upon closer inspection, as bert puffs on his cigarette, he has a glint in his eyes not unlike the one gerard gets when he’s about to go off) and mikey pushes up his glasses and says, 'you and gerard.'

bert plays dumb. 'me and gerard,' he repeats, tone not quite as blank as mikey’s. he takes a long drag and cocks an eyebrow, a _go on,_ and mikey hardens. something in his eyes goes stoney and serious.

'he’s- don’t fuck him up, bert.' (some part of him thinks mikey would’ve said his last name, then, if it wasn’t so fucking dumb- and that almost makes him laugh, a little hysterical feeling of giddiness, and it must show on his face, because mikey looks at him, long and even, and there’s something mean there.)

'got it.' bert exhales. 'message received, bossman.'

(it's a bad decision. he knows that. he picks the bottle back up and takes a long drink.)

gerard finds his way into bert's bed an afternoon or so later, the sun high and the air wet and humid, the northeastern promise of rain- he bites at bert's lip, sharp, the way he kind of likes- and he says, 'missed you.' there's something in his eyes.

he's ink-stained and he reeks of paint thinner and cigarettes and his hair is all matted and gross and he makes bert fucking scream, with his roommates right downstairs.

 _you're beautiful,_ bert wants to say, watching gerard hit his flair. he's wearing one of his ratty hoodies, the soft kind that makes bert want to rest his head on his chest and kiss him sweet and slow like a tv movie. bert wants, and god knows that he takes, ask anyone on their block- but there are some things he isn't made for. _you're so good to me,_ he wants to say, but he trades it in for _just like that_ and tastes artificial strawberry off gerard's tongue.

-

bert wasn’t yet a freshman and gerard not quite a junior, when they met- bert was washing dishes for a place right off campus, his hair not long enough for a hairnet and the skin on his hands thin and worn. the gerard of that summer was spikier than the gerard now, who gets high enough that all his edges are sanded away and holds bert close while they swap stories. (not to say that the gerard of now doesn’t have his sharp parts, his warning labels, but he doesn’t glower like he used to, doesn’t swallow liquor with a thorny grimace.)  
gerard would get a table and a black coffee and he would sketch things that looked violent, get himself ink-stained from leaning too close to the page, close enough that the tip of his nose would come away shiny and black and bert would peek out from the back and think about wiping it off.  
'hey-' bert's head snapped up. he was a busboy, by then, made drinks sometimes- 'get me another one, yeah?' gerard held up his mug, a five between his fingers. bert nodded.  
he brought him the change and the coffee and gerard didn't spare him a glance. he tipped, though; muttered, 'keep it,' when bert went to set down his three bucks.

he didn't drink anything stronger than coffee, then, and his eyes were cold, but he warmed up fast, once bert got him talking. (and, god, did he talk. about anything and everything, only pausing to sip his coffee and let bert interject.)

bert got him to try weed. he'd had it already- symptom of a small town. nothing to do but walk the train tracks and get fucked up; but gerard was an introvert, content to spend high school in his room and college in his apartment.

bert had still been in a dorm, then, and in august they stuffed a towel in the gap of the door and shared a bowl. gerard had spent a half hour staring at the ceiling and murmuring to himself, and bert looked on. somewhere in the back of his mind it had marinated- _i want to kiss him._ an urge, and then a want, and then, mid-september, when gerard was coming down, he looked over with something bright in his eyes and kissed bert with such an awkward tenderness it took a second to kiss him back.

-

mikey's just glad gerard can't drive, because they have this unspoken rule about staying out of each other's business, because if gerard tried to drive himself home when he was crossfaded or something he definitely wouldn't accept a ride from mikey. (he can picture it, the way gerard would lash out, the reminders of pete and frank and everyone else, all the other times gerard stayed out of his shit.)  
mikey's glad gerard can't drive and he's really hoping that there's something soft behind bert's asshole exterior, something that'll stop mikey from having to break his jaw- because he likes bert, really, thinks he's alright. and he doesn't want to fuck up the shaky rapport he and his brother have by finally breaking their honor code, getting his hands dirty with gerard's exes.  
so he hopes. and he prays, sort of, says a quick little hail mary now and then because frank used to teach him prayers and they're good for calming down.

he doesn't know what the hell bert and gerard _are,_ and it's almost driving him crazy. sometimes they look at each other like they're in love and sometimes gerard's coming home crying and mikey doesn't fucking get it. mikey's simple, or he does everyone the service of pretending to be; he likes no strings attached and he likes living off campus and he likes when people stay the hell away from his brother. he keeps it black and white.

ray likes shades of gray, but they can work on that. ray likes talking about their feelings and kristin does that, sometimes, but it's while her strap is still on and usually still in him and thus doesn't really count. ray wants to talk all the time and he wants to see the best in people and mikey wants to shut him up. (which he does, frequently, and in the best ways possible.)

ray thinks that bert and gerard are good for each other. mikey kisses him. ray thinks that mikey should open up more. mikey jerks him off. ray thinks that pete's front teeth had been a bit much. mikey's willing to admit that, and ray says pete doesn't know what he's missing. mikey fucks him. he sobs into mikey's pillow and later, after he's finished a bottle of water, says, 'wow,' and kisses mikey far too sweetly.

ray works the night shift at the library and he looks horribly wholesome while he does it, his strong arms hidden in big hoodies and his eyes warm behind his reading glasses. mikey hates him for it.

kristin passes him a cigarette and he watches the ceiling fan spin and she says, 'does he think you're, like- dating?'

'no,' mikey says and he takes a drag and he amends. 'i don't think so.' he lifts his head to watch her, all silver-blonde and effortless. she unbuckles the harness and slides it off and he puts the cigarette out on her side table.

'well,' she kisses him, licks at the boozey taste in his mouth. 'do you think he wants to?' her hands are wandering, grabbing at his hips and running over his chest.

'dunno,' mikey says, and he kisses her, and he doesn't stop kissing her until neither of them want to talk.

he perches on the library desk when ray's working and sometimes they sit in silence for an hour or two and he wants to say that he doesn't normally do this kind of thing, and it's not a lie, but it would sound like one. so he keeps his mouth shut. he does what he remembers of the rosary with ray's knuckles.

he bumps into gee on the way home. he's walking from the library, past mccormick and then left onto their street, where student housing starts, stepping over broken glass and then stepping into the greasy, shadowy mess that is his brother.

'hey,' mikey says, low and raspy from lack of use, and gerard looks up.

'hey.'

bert's place is at the end of the block. if mikey pivoted a little he'd be able to see it. gerard smells like a liquor store.

his eyes are dull behind the dark curtain of his hair and mikey wants- he doesn't know, not quite, but it's an urge that aches inside his ribs as he watches gerard stumble over the sidewalk. he opens his mouth and gerard's shoulder brushes against his as he passes.

'love you,' mikey says, finally. gerard's steps falter.

'love you too.'

he doesn't know what else he could have done. he lies awake until the sun comes up and he prays bert will take care of him.

-

gerard's birthday is spent absolutely debauched.

bert snags some good weed, bullies jeph into buying champagne because he's got an id, washes his fucking sheets- he goes all-out, for this shit. he buys little candles from the michael's an hour out of town.

and it works out. it makes gee happy- he's charmed and he's high and he sips his champagne with all the elegance of a debutante. his kisses get sloppy and his words steadily more horny, 'til he's kneeling between bert's knees telling him to grab his hair a little more, _fuckin' pull it, i want it to hurt-_

bert says, 'you're into some weird shit,' grinning down at him, a tight grip on his hair- and he doesn't mean it, not really, but gerard's eyelashes flutter in that way they do and he whimpers, low and want-on. oh.  
so bert pulls a little harder, jerks his head up to look in his eyes, big and pretty. 'lucky you're cute.'

gerard blows him, and bert knows it's good for him, too, but he deserves a birthday present, a real one; and so he fucks gerard until they tire themselves out, and he surrenders his flair, and when they wake up at 4 he says, 'yeah,' to gerard's whispered question, and they skip class.

they spend a day in bed. (bert checks his grades once, when gerard's taking a piss- he winces. he shoves the cold feeling of dread down in time to accept a kiss and toss his phone somewhere across the room.)

the next time he sees gerard out of class, he's needled and pleaded enough with his lit prof to get back up to a safe b, and gee won't answer any questions about how he's been. he texts _u busy?_ at half-past two and tumbles in the window a minute after bert texts _nah._

'out of cigarettes,' he offers as an explanation, eyes wild, and he has three and a hit of bert's flair before his hands stop fiddling.

they talk, for a bit, bert avoiding _how are you_ and _are you okay_ and opting instead for 'how's mikey?' which makes gerard climb into his lap to look at him quizzically head-on; 'he's been coming home late,' he says, and he runs his palms over bert's chest. bert gets him going on about the last comic he read.

gerard's handsy, but that's normal, and so they're still talking when he works bert's cock out from his jeans- he says something stupid, angling up into gerard's hand and trying to get him to laugh. (it works. the giddy feeling of _being with gerard_ does its part to keep his worry at bay.)

gerard murmurs, 'fucking dumbass,' and bert would like to think it's his tone and not his words that makes his dick jump. he wouldn't know what to do about it, if he got off on getting called dumb by a senior, by a guy who could be his older brother 'cause he took a gap year and then some- so it's good that bert doesn't get off on that.  
gerard notices, because of course he does. because he's an art major. because he's _got an eye for these sorts of things, didn't you know? oh, of course you didn't. you just think with your dick, don't you? just a stupid little boy._ and bert turns red and cums all over gerard's hand and gerard smiles that annoying smile of his, all pointy and far too excited that he's found a new button to push.

gerard leaves their lit class halfway through (bert sits two desks in front of him but knows it's him because he has to push his chair back further than anyone else, because he likes to tuck himself into his desk, because he shuffles away with his untied shitty shoes), and he texts bert not even a minute later, _cmere_ and then- a picture that bert doesn't want to even try to open in class. he dips.

gerard does some acrobatic shit to fit them both in one stall, to press his whole self up against the wall and just- take bert, in him, whimper and whine and grin at him while he catches his breath and bert knots off the condom. 'this is so fucking gross,' he says against gerard's mouth and he laughs the scent of vodka when he says, 'i know, right. let's go again.'

-

mikey bites his tongue when gerard comes home bruised and mussed and looking like he got fucked six ways to sunday, and like he's proud of it. (kinda looking like he did the fucking, or at least part of it. ew.) _glass houses,_ says the part of his brain that sounds a little too much like ray.

kristin asks him at a party if he's sorted out the dating thing, while he's sitting on a counter and absent-mindedly watching jeph shove frank into a pantry, and he mutters 'no,' and takes a long drag of his joint and tries to figure out what song is on.

'where is he?'

'not his scene.' that piques her interest- she cocks her head and grins at him from atop the kitchen island.

'oh, michael, tell me you didn't start fucking an honors student.'

'fine. i won't tell you.' (he thinks it's pinball wizard, but he can't quite tell. who the fuck would put that on.) she reaches out and nudges his shin with her foot.

'is he a stem major? he better not be. you wouldn't do that.'

'brian may was a stem major,' he says, defensive. (he doesn't know why. pinball wizard ends and some fucking piano thing happens. it's- it's another fucking elton john song. whose party is this, anyway?)

'mikes,' she kicks him. 'is he?'

'is he what?'

'a stem major!'

'oh. no.' he hands the joint to her, because she looks like she's gonna ask. 'i hate stem majors,' he says, too loud. (some dude gives him a pissy look. _fuck you,_ he says with his eyes. what's a stem major doing at the drama kids' party, anyway? that's whose place this is, he finally realizes- ryan and all them. they would think elton john is party music.)

'so what's his major, then? and would i know him? like, if i saw him.'

the pantry door opens again. frank stumbles out looking kinda dazed. mikey thinks about how he wants to make ray look like that.

'he works at the library.'

ray's very malleable, when he's underneath him, the softness of his stomach yielding to mikey's palms, his hips fitting sweet and succinctly into mikey's grip. he melts, all of him, liquid and heat and a body that seems too large, too strong, to respond to mikey's touch like that, like it's more than he can take. like it's all he'll ever need. mikey lubes up his strap and all the while ray is panting, softly, hand lingering around his mouth like he knows he'll need to hold back some sound. (mikey takes that hand, when he works ray open, and he's glad- ray begs, like he's hardly aware of the words, _please mikey god i need it i need you please,_ and god, it's hot.) mikey's dick grinds against his strap as he pushes inside him, and ray's grip on his hand tightens.  
'god, fuck- yeah, just like that, mikes, fuck,' he squirms, trying to get comfortable. his hair is all wild from the effort, his face bright red. mikey doesn't move except to sweep his thumb gently over ray's nipple, watching how he shivers in response.  
ray's free hand wanders for his dick, and mikey bats it away, gives ray a quick stroke himself, just to hear him whine. (mikey's own dick can be attended to later. he's got more important things to worry about.)  
'you alright?' he asks, which might be stupid considering ray's gotten aquainted with his strap inside him and his cock hasn't seemed to lose interest- but ray gets his meaning and says, 'yeah.' he nods, reaching up to push his hair out of his eyes. 'yeah, you can move.'

he pulls mikey down to kiss him, and he's bendy enough for that, his bones only protesting a little as he gets into something like missionary, kissing at ray's jaw and rocking into him and listening to him moan, his hands in mikey's hair and his breath fogging up his glasses. mikey can feel it when he cums, his dick twitching against his stomach, and he curses, 'fuck, mikes,' his voice strained and low.

'god,' he says, looking up at the ceiling, after mikey's pulled out and fixed his hair and gotten his briefs in order. 'can i suck your dick? you deserve that. let me get you off.'

and there's something about his eyes, all big and honest, that pulls a rug out from under mikey, somewhere in his head, leaves him kinda speechless for a second. 'yeah,' he says, because his dick isn't having the same pause. (that's one of the things he likes so much about ray, how he hadn't said a word the first time he saw mikey's dick- mikey had told him, obviously, but he hadn't reacted like some people did, people who made it very clear that his was the first t-dick they'd ever seen. ray had just done his best to get him off, that first night and every night since then, and tonight's no exception.)

ray's apartment window faces east, so the sun comes in, paints them in gold, and for a second it freaks mikey out, because he's got curtains- and then he sees ray's blurry form beside him and his heart slows. the groove on the side of his nose that usually houses his glasses doesn't hurt nearly as bad as usual. (he goes feeling around on the side table and they're there, next to ray's. he doesn't remember taking them off.)

he sits, for a while. leans back against the headboard and watches what he can see of campus get brighter. ray's alarm goes off at 8.

'hey,' he says, his eyes bleary and tired. he kisses the side of mikey's neck. 'i have coffee, but it's kinda shit- we can go to starbucks if you want.'

they have ray's coffee, and he was kinda right about it, but it's hot and it makes mikey feel like a person again. which is nice, because skinny jeans aren't really meant to be squeezed back into first thing in the morning, and he hasn't seen his hair, but he's still itching to take a flat iron to it.

'you got class today?' ray asks, rummaging through his cabinets. mikey rests his chin on his hand and watches the muscles in his back move through his threadbare t shirt. 'it's thursday,' he adds.

'yeah. lit at, uh, two. i think. it might be one-thirty. the prof just changed, so shit's all weird.'

ray nods. 'wanna go do laundry?'

and it's almost weird, how fast mikey slides into this faux-domestic thing they have going, friends with benefits where the benefits are ray's shitty coffee and his quarters at the laundromat and a walk to class- it makes him scared, to be this comfortable. the trees are budding and he sleeps in ray's bed and sometimes he fantasizes about ending it but the scene that keeps cropping up is one where he takes ray's face in his hands and he says, 'i wanna be with you,' like some terrible nicholas sparks movie, and ray just smiles that big stupid smile of his and kisses him.

'did you take chem in high school?' ray asks, his reading glasses slipping down his nose. mikey flicks ash into his beer can.

'does it look like it?' he crosses out the last thing he wrote, because ray had politely pointed out that empirical formula doesn't work like that- 'i took foundations of bio twice.'

they're sitting at ray's tiny kitchen table, because he studies better than anyone mikey knows, even though he's easily distracted- mikey runs his socked foot up the length of ray's calf and he turns pink and loses his sentence in the middle of it. (kristin's roommate texts him to invite him to a party; he flips his phone upside down and asks ray to explain the theory behind molar mass one more time.)

-

bert's pretty grateful for gerard's obsession with his damn blackout curtains, actually. it helps him pretend that it's the middle of the night and he doesn't have a single responsibility besides burying his face in gerard's pillow and smelling his shampoo.

bert thinks he might come apart. he thinks this might finally be the end of the charade ('cha- _rah-_ de,' he hears gerard say in his head, the pink-red warmth of his voice-). he hates himself for it.

gerard's thumb strokes along his achilles tendon, his nail scraping, bitten and rough. bert thinks of all the damn horror movies he's seen. he thinks of how gerard could sever him. gerard's dry lips find his ankle. he makes a sound, back in his throat, surprised but not quite unappreciative.

they don't talk. the cd player spins itself into quiet oblivion with some smiths album inside that stopped playing an hour ago. bert supposes it's like a white noise machine. he supposes he'll lose his mind in here.

he rolls over onto his back so gerard can get at his face. he thinks they'll kiss, but instead they just look at each other, their eyes black in the dark. it feels like gerard's reached into his chest, pulled out his heart, all dripping and pulsing and aching. his head pounds, somewhere dizzy and feverish and faraway, someplace where the feeling of gerard's gaze doesn't cut like this. doesn't slice him open with surgical precision, peel back the layers of protective coating to expose the shit that bert's worked so hard to hide. he's wearing a hoodie in may and still he's never felt more naked. gerard's breath is touching his mouth.

'love you,' gerard whispers. he leans down and he kisses the side of bert's mouth and he stays there. 'love you, bert. so much,' his face is wet. bert doesn't know if it's spit or tears. it's noon and they've both got class. gerard presses his face against bert's like he's trying to crawl into his skin.

-

gerard twitches toward his phone. stops. starts again, his fingers like a dying spider. ghost-white. corpse-white. cuticles red-hot. everything aching.

he wants to hold bert so close to him that they become one. his skin crawls.

he shuts his eyes and it's a bad idea because all he can think about is taking a hammer to his hand and breaking each of his fingers- the pain doesn't make him wince nearly as much as the thought of never being able to draw again.

against his better judgement- (or maybe for it, if you weigh getting clean against keeping a friendship on familiar grounds-) he calls bert and breathes down the phone. like a horror movie villain. like he's calling a phone sex line. _what are you wearing._ the dial tone stops.

''lo? gee, if you wanna come over you can just-'

the first time gerard had bert over, he was shaking.  
mostly because of the three cups of coffee he had drank in too-rapid succession, hot, even though it was september, and a balmy september, too-  
but also because it was bert, who was cool and young (not that gerard felt old, but bert was just so- he had a glint in his eyes, like he was always messing with you, deciding whether to let you in on the joke, and gerard wanted to be let in so badly-) and was most definitely not-mikey, the antithesis of the one person who'd been in gerard's room. and his room wasn't bad, per say, just _weird,_ mikey had said, _the same way you are._ that's a compliment, coming from mikey. he'd never said it, not in so many words, but gerard knew he didn't quite know how to get his own shit out. his weird. (gerard envied it. mikey was a social chameleon, becoming whatever the room called for, and gerard; he stayed home for a reason.)  
bert liked it. bert nodded and laughed and his eyes wandered over everything, the sketchbook gerard left open so the graphite wouldn't smear and his guilty gear figures and his cd collection that always seemed to drift back into chaos no matter how many times mikey tried to organize it- 'law of entropy,' bert murmured against gerard's lips when he mentioned it.

'gave mikey all my weed. and my coke. i think he's gonna sell it.' he takes a shuddering breath. it feels like his bones move with it. 'tell- tell gabe not to sell to me anymore.'

bert's breathing. the hot screen of his phone against the hot skin of his cheek. 'do you… do you want me to come over?'

'please.' he should be embarrassed, by the rawness of his voice.

bert flicks his lighter, brings it almost to his mouth before he stops, lifts his eyebrows guiltily. his eyes are orange-black. he lifts his thumb off the trigger and they're like wells. 'i shouldn't,' he decides, his lips moving around the cigarette.

'you can.'

bert shakes his head. 'you off the booze too, then?'

'uh-huh.'

he's trying to catch himself in a spiral- he doesn't know if bert understands. trying to trick himself. catching himself off guard at two in the morning so he doesn't have a way to outsmart himself. picking himself up all pathetic and sweating and making decisions he'll regret in the morning, in the harsh light of the day; he's on a downward spiral and he's trying his best to seize it in his hands. if he doesn't grab it now it'll kill him.

bert had been laughing, their first time together. he was wearing these fucking fingerless gloves that day, and he wouldn't take 'em off and it was so stupid and they were so nervous, and bert had made girly porno noises until he made real ones and he wrapped his arms around gerard's neck and it was good. it was so fucking good. they laughed together with bert's gloves in gerard's hair and gerard's teeth in his neck. _you're my best fucking friend,_ bert had said afterwards, his eyes closed and his hair a mess.

'i really do love you,' gerard whispers. into the darkness. there's a sliver of moon coming through the curtains and it lands far away from their faces. he wants to put on a cd so his voice isn't so loud. let morrissey whine over everything he wants to say. let will toledo drown him out with some badly mixed guitar. 'i mean it. in a- in a gay way.' bert snickers.

'yeah? thought you might'a meant it in a straight way.' his voice is- it's strained, almost. his face is drenched in shadow but gerard can see the way his mouth twists, something he can't define. 'love you too,' he says after a moment. it's quiet. 'i'm, uh. i'm in love with you.' gerard wants to kiss him but his skin is on fire and so it feels like the wrong time. they're sitting and they're not touching and somehow- somehow it's enough. they don't talk much after that. gerard starts to shake and cry around sunrise and bert presses his flair into his hand and says, 'i'm gonna make coffee,' and he doesn't ask to leave and he doesn't ask about anything and gerard can hear him moving around downstairs, his steps sure. he brings the whole pot of coffee up with him.

-

mikey way appears at bert's side between classes, the sneaky ghost way he does. (bert's never sought him out, now that he thinks about it- the kid just sort of blinks into existence.)

'hey,' he says. he's noodley like gerard, but he's somehow even bonier; his elbow stabs into bert's ribcage and it feels like it fuckin' bruises.

bert doesn't know quite how to reply to that. the last time they spoke he sort of thought he was gonna get his jaw broken.

'want a cigarette?' he asks, because it's the friendliest thing he can think of. mikey nods.

he's got his own lighter. a cherry red bic. he's kind of sheepdogging bert's steps, but like he's trying to be subtle about it? like, pushing them towards the far end of campus in a slow, diagonal course.

'gerard's getting clean,' he says. it's a flat statement, but bert can definitely hear something underneath it. (maybe gerard's translating powers are rubbing off on him. or mikey's like- opening up, or something.)

'mm.'

'he, uh. i always kinda figured it was- like that, for him. like, shit was more serious. he has an addictive personality, i guess.'

bert takes a drag on his cigarette. mikey's is burning between his fingers. his hair's tucked underneath the arms of his glasses. bert's never noticed it before. it's kinda stupid, in a nice way.

'he really likes you.'

bert snorts. 'yeah, you could say that.'

they walk. mikey finally remembers his cigarette.

'hey-' he looks over, eyebrow up; 'did you really have asthma when you were a kid, or did somebody make that up?'

and mikey doesn't _laugh,_ but his mouth does this smirky thing that gerard totally does sometimes and he lifts his cigarette to his mouth, deliberately. bert socks him in the shoulder.

mikey's phone buzzes; he grins and bert's trying to read over his shoulder when his own phone buzzes and it's a lengthy, wandering love note from gerard that compares him to the killing of a sacred deer soundtrack. ( _u make me feel the same way as those fuckin violins. all shivery and good-nervous_ )

'that movie's got a good score,' mikey murmurs.

'fuck off,' bert says, but there's no venom in it.

**Author's Note:**

> im not in college but i do live in a college town and do drugs so
> 
> title is from [little beast](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) by richard siken!! love that dude. he had a stroke recently and ik we're all broke teens but if u have a couple bucks to spare there is a gofundme to help pay his medical bills [here](https://www.gofundme.com/f/sikenstrokerecovery)


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